


Introspections

by Xanoka



Category: Fables - Willingham
Genre: F/M, Gossip, Possibly Unrequited Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanoka/pseuds/Xanoka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various characters contemplate romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue

Following a few paces behind with the wheelchair, Blue watched the pair of them speculatively. Of course there had been rumours ever since the Remembrance Day ball – that was inevitable. For Snow, a legendary ice queen, to abruptly change the habit of centuries by attending the ball with an escort was bound to cause interested comment. That her choice had fallen on Bigby Wolf, of all people, had naturally raised eye brows, and in some quarters had led to feverish speculation. 

It was just that they were so different. So unsuited. Snow, true to her name, was all icy froideur – aloof and pure as unblemished snow. Even as an invalid she was dressed to impress, wearing an expensive, immaculate suit. Bigby, on the other hand, was as dishevelled as ever. Hair rumpled, nicotine stained fingers gripping a half-finished cigarette (as usual), and unshaven – though Blue could hardly blame him for that. He supposed that being a wolf Bigby couldn’t help his hairiness. He’d overheard Snow complaining once about his unfamiliarity with the sharp end of a razor, only to be informed that it was a weakness of his glamour that however often he shaved the hair would always grow back within minutes. And he couldn’t help the lack of cologne either. With a nose as sensitive as his it would be a bit much to expect him to douse himself in a chemical scent. What he definitely could help, though, was his clothes. They probably hadn’t been washed, let alone pressed in days. Rumpled, probably sweat stained, Blue doubted it was Bigby’s attire that had drawn Snow to him. 

If she was interested in him. While he enjoyed the gossip about his boss as much as anyone, Blue had his doubts. That they had gone to the dance together didn’t necessarily mean anything. Bigby had been investigating Rose’s supposed murder, and it would be just like them to use the ball as another opportunity to discuss the crime. Workaholics both of them. And come to think of it, Bigby had used the ball for his big moment – he had hardly been thinking of romance. And a less romantic couple at that dance would have been hard to find. Snow had seemed fairly repelled by her partner – who had arrived late, hardly a love sick swain hanging on her arm – and since then had been consistently offended by any reference to their ‘romantic’ relationship. Blue wondered how Bigby felt about that.

Perhaps he didn’t care. They had worked together for centuries and Blue had never noticed him show any particular interest in Snow, or anyone else for that matter. Hardly a ladies man, unlike Snow’s ex-husband. Maybe that was the attraction. Bigby was so opposite to Charming in practically every way imaginable.

And that was the other thing. Their stories were so different. Not to mention their species. Bigby might have lived as a human for centuries, but he was still a wolf. And not just any wolf either. The Big Bad. It was in his name. Despite the amnesty and his apparent moral reformation he clearly wasn’t ashamed of his past. (Though why should he be? It wasn’t like he was really human.) He had been, and perhaps would always be the villain of the story. A monster to frighten children – and according to Ride he had been genuinely terrifying, whatever the Mundy’s take on the story had sometimes made him out to be. So much so that even now, when as far as Blue knew he hadn’t even taken wolf form for years, he was banned from the Farm and a source of uneasy fear for most of the Fable community. 

Snow, on the other hand, was a story book princess. Innocent – though since her divorce she’d grown cynical – and as the deputy mayor of the community had continued to occupy her old role as benevolent ruler since leaving the Homelands. She was the heroine of the story, both in the old world and this one, the driving force behind the establishment of their new, safe community. Owing in some measure, Blue had to admit, to Bigby. Just as Snow was the real power behind King Cole’s throne, Bigby was Snow’s muscle, her enforcer. Initially it had seemed an odd choice – Blue remembered being surprised by Snow’s insistence, overriding even Bigby’s objections. But it had worked out surprisingly well. No one wanted to mess with a cop who, rumour had it, could turn into a giant wolf and eat you.

But despite some evidence of personal distaste on Snow’s part, they had a good working relationship, one that had only grown closer since they had been forced to work closely together to solve Rose’s ‘murder’. Yet there had never been any hints of romance. That was understandable on Snow’s part, but Bigby’s? Blue could understand the attraction– any man would – but it was odd that after going so long without showing any romantic interest he should suddenly develop a crush. It was generally assumed that Bigby wasn’t interested in human women. He’d never made a move on one anyway. Unless he was shy. The idea nearly made Blue laugh out loud.

No, on the whole Blue had listened to the stories flying around, but never really believed them. But over the last few months he had begun to change his mind. Bigby’s attention to Snow during her convalescence had been nothing short of devoted. They had all taken their turns visiting her, of course. And everyone had been delighted by her recovery. But as her strength returned, the number and length of those visits had begun to tail off. As her Personal Assistant, and closest work colleague Blue had continued to visit assiduously – he owed it to her – and he hadn’t been alone. It seemed that every time he went to that ward, there was Bigby Wolf. When did he do his work? Apparently never. It was quite sweet really, though he would never say so in front of Bigby – he could just imagine how he would react. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by the gossips of Fabletown either. Snow would probably not be gratified.

As they walked down the street Blue could see people watching with interest – Bigby and Snow walking together. And bickering like an old married couple. Or rather she was, complaining about his ‘babying’ of her. She was right. It hadn’t escaped Blue’s notice that despite his seeming carelessness, Bigby was never more than a foot away from her elbow, presumably ready to catch her if she fell.

Perhaps they did suit each other after all. Snow was proud, and Blue hadn’t spent decades working with her not to know how prickly she could be. On the other hand, it took a lot to ruffle Bigby Wolf. He could handle her. And as lofty as she could be, Snow would probably value someone as loyal and dependable as Bigby had proved himself to be.

All in all, it would be very interesting to watch how it all developed.


	2. Bigby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bigby contemplates Snow. Set in 'Legends in Exile'.

I can hear Snow on the phone in her office. I can always hear her, or smell her. I try hard not to notice but it’s impossible. Even while reading my reports a remote corner of my brain’s always focused on her, analysing everything. She had been talking to Charming. She was going to meet him to discuss his decision to sell his titles at the Remembrance Ball. She would probably seem perfectly calm and collected to anyone else, but I know better. I can smell the stress, or rather the distress rolling off her. She’s always like that after an encounter with her ex. The bastard. He’d ruined her life. I’d never known her before the divorce, I only met her as a refugee fleeing the Homelands. But I sometimes try to imagine her as she must have been once, under the cynicism and general iciness. I usually fail.

She deserves so much better.

She’s talking to Blue, saying she’s going out for coffee. I can hear her picking up her bag and the click of the door closing. I can hear her walking down the hall. Soon she’ll be in the street and with all the other smells and noises she’ll be harder to keep track of, even for me.

I sigh and return to the report. I leaf through various sheets of paper until I find the photo of Rose Red’s apartment. The crime scene. If there’s even been a crime. I just know that Jack’s involved somehow and that’s usually a good indication of a con. Looking at the picture confirms what I remember, the ‘trashed’ apartment was obviously faked. But the blood was Rose’s... Poor Snow. It was hard on her – Red was all the family she had left. I’d heard her crying in her office, very quietly so no one could hear her. Not that that stopped me from knowing, of course. I could even smell the salt in her tears. 

But what am I doing? I’m staring at the wall and the photo’s slipped out of my fingers. I sigh again irritably. Thank God I don’t have a PA who could just waltz in at any time and catch me napping. And thank God for my fearsome reputation. No one just drops in for a chat with me. The other Fables are all slightly scared of me. Mostly it’s just bubbling away beneath the surface but I can always sense it. I can always smell it. Alienating, as you can imagine. 

Except Snow. She’s never seemed afraid of me – at least, not since we left the Homelands. Total faith in her amnesty. Or maybe it’s just a case of familiarity breeds contempt. She seems scornful enough most of the times I see her.

For some reason my thoughts always returns to her these days, like they’re on tracks. I’ve been in human form too long. She’s always smelled good to me, but as the decades slipped by it’s grown on me that she looks good too in a way I just wasn’t aware of before. And while I couldn’t ignore her before, it was more like background noise. Now it’s an obsession. I should go, live somewhere remote, but I’m not sure I can leave her.


	3. Bigby (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bigby and Snow are not in Fabletown anymore... Set in 'Storybook Love'.

The water is icy cold and fast flowing, washing away all traces of sleep. Not a bad way to start the morning. My preferred wake-up call back in the Homelands (that involuntary dip courtesy of Red not withstanding). 

Except I’m not in the Homelands.

And I’m not in wolf form.

What…?

I resurface and take stock. I appear to have been swimming (nude) in a broad, deep, cold river. The water is clean and unpolluted, so I definitely can’t be anywhere near New York. I can even taste the minerals, so I can’t be more than a few miles from the source. I’m in the mountains? It only takes a glance to confirm the theory. Judging by the terrain and the forest I’m somewhere remote and northern. The Rockies, maybe?

I inhale deeply, expecting all the usual forest smells, and maybe a hint of the closest outpost of human civilisation. A cabin, maybe a small town or resort for campers and hikers, or a hunting lodge. Instead I smell a maddeningly familiar, intoxicating scent, one that apparently has followed me all the way here to the back of beyond. Have I gone mad? So used to its proximity that I’m imagining it even here, where it has no business being. Hell, where I have to business being. Maybe my sense of smell is sharper than I thought. Maybe I can smell her all the way from New York?

Looking around I can see a makeshift campsite. A small tent, even the cold remains of a camp fire, and about hundred metres from there a car, half hidden among the trees, though judging by the staling smell of gasoline it hasn’t been used for a few days – presumably since whenever it was we arrived here.

She’s in the tent, I can hear her slow, steady breathing, so she must be asleep. And there’s another smell, overlaying her familiar scent, one that I can hardly believe I’m smelling, that makes my throat dry and conjures some very appealing mental images. But it can’t be true. It just can’t be. I need to confirm it. I need to get closer.

I swim steadily to the river bank and scramble inelegantly up the steep side and stand still, inhaling deeply. 

My dip in the river seems to have washed the evidence off me (though perhaps I’m imagining a faint trace of her sweat on my skin) but the air around the campsite, and particularly the tent is pungent with sex and sweat, hers and mine. Whatever we’ve been doing, we’ve apparently been doing it for a fair few days and our respective scents, our sweat, have blended together like a perfume. I can smell it on everything, even on a partially crushed clump of clover and moss on the edge of the clearing where at some point we must have decided to take a tumble. I can smell it on the clothes I find dumped a few feet from the entrance of the tent, damp and creased like they’d been left there over night. Like they’d been taken off in a hurry.

I start pulling them on as quickly as I can, refusing to let my imagination wander down that avenue. I need to focus. Something very strange is happening. I’m in the middle of nowhere, with no memory of how I got here, or of what I’ve been doing, besides the evidence of my nose. How could this have happened? Who could have done this?

Jack¸ popped into my mind as if the word had been waiting for my brain to click into gear. Was this all some horrible, cruel joke? To fulfil all my deepest desires, my every fantasy, but to deny me the memory of it? To leave me to imagine what we might have done, what it must have felt like, what she might have sounded like….

The gods must be laughing at me.

Of course, there was the other possibility. That this isn’t the latest stupid idea of a prank from the king of dumbass ideas, but something a lot more sinister. Snow and I pretty much run Fabletown – could this be a coup? An underhanded, baffling coup, but a coup nonetheless. We are, after all, miles from civilisation, from help, where we could easily vanish without a trace.

It’s time to wake up Snow. We need to make a move, just in case. If this is an assassination attempt, and we have been (somehow) lured here to our deaths, whoever it is has apparently forgotten who I am. I may not know these woods, but I’m the Big Bad. A wild forest like this one is meat and drink to me. Far away from the distractions and sensory overload of the city, I’m at my best here. Even with Snow to protect, we are hardly easy targets. And it’s not like Snow’s completely helpless. I remember what Blue told me about what remained of Shea Khan when she was finished with him.

With that in mind, I decide to take an indirect approach to waking Snow. Besides, I’m not sure I’d be able to control myself if I actually went into that tent with her. That enclosed, sex saturated space…

I knock a discarded saucepan loudly against a tree to wake her up. I can hear her shifting about inside the tent, and I hear the moment she stills, the exact moment she starts to realise she’s not in Fabletown anymore. There’s more shuffling as she shimmies out of her sleeping bag and crawls to the entrance of the tent. She’s poking her head out, apparently fully dressed, and glowering at me accusingly, as if this is somehow my fault.

For a second I can’t say anything. Her hair is mussed with sleep, and that tantalising smell engulfs me again, sharper and fresher than ever before. It clings to her. My scent breathes from her skin like perfume. Suddenly, all I can think about is how I just wish I could remember.

Then she scowls and reality reasserts itself. I gruffly tell her to get ready and turn away. We’re in danger, I remind myself. I need to stay focused. We both need to focus. 

I try to tune her out, answering her comments and questions absently as I inhale deeply and listen intently for anyone else in the vicinity. I come up with nothing, but somehow that’s not reassuring. Is someone waiting just beyond the range of my sense of hearing and smell? An enemy who knows me? A dangerous enemy.

Suddenly every whisper of the wind and rustle of undergrowth is a potential threat, either announcing an attacker’s approach, or masking it. We need to move right now. I turn around to chivvy Snow along, but she’s ready and is just pulling on her shoes. 

We have matching clothes. 

How cute. 

Whoever came up with this enchantment is one sick bastard, taunting me with this sentimental couple’s crap that I somehow find appealing. 

Though apparently, it does not appeal to Snow. She seems disgusted at the very idea of us going anywhere together. 

Figures. 

She looks so disappointed with herself, as if even a spell shouldn’t have forced her to overcome her aversion to me.

It makes me wonder how she’ll react when she figures out what we’ve been doing for the last few days. Like me, she clearly doesn’t remember or I’d have had an earful by now. But Snow is not stupid. She’s distracted now, wondering aloud about what’s going on and trying to keep her balance as we pick our way across the uneven terrain away from the campsite. Hopefully avoiding and escaping danger and ultimately getting to the bottom of this mystery will occupy her mind for a while. I decide to share my theories on that score as we head to the car I can smell just over the ridge.

But sooner or later she’s going to put two and two together. 

And when she does, what am I going to say to her?


	4. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow's point of view, based on the airport scene in Story Book Love.

What is with that bitch and putting bullets in people I – people who matter. To me, personally.

Which, to review, would be me. Rose Red, I suppose, since she is my sister, even after that shit she pulled with Jack, almost giving me a nervous breakdown… And Blue, since I do work with him every day.

I suppose I can include Bigby. He is my right hand man. I depend on him, and whatever anyone says, I’m not too proud to admit it.

And then there’s… 

Really? Is there no one else? Well. That’s a little sad.

Bigby mutters something about going to find us a cab, since there’s no need to wait for our luggage. Since none of that camping shit was actually ours we didn’t bother to bring it. A little (wasteful) payback to whoever was behind all this.

After our little run in with Goldilocks we’re less inclined to believe it was Jack after all. Lucky for him. Bigby would have destroyed him. If I didn’t get there first. After the shock of our initial escape from Goldie wore off I became livid again. 

Of all the humiliating situations to find myself in! Stuck in the wilderness playing happy campers with Mr Big Bad himself. If it wasn’t for our near death experiences I would almost have suspected him of somehow being behind it. The forest is his favourite place to be, after all. And he did trick me into going to the Remembrance Day Ball with him. I’m still pretty pissed off about that. Some underhanded surprise holiday could almost be his idea of a good follow up date.

Except that he promised he’d let the matter drop, and Bigby doesn’t lie. At least, not to me. And he hasn’t tried anything since, I made sure of that. I kicked him to the curb pretty hard after he confessed his little scheme, and I regret it in no way.

Although, he was very sweet, visiting me when I was recovering from the first time Goldie tried to kill me. Annoying, but sweet. Still. He doesn’t need to know that.

And whatever enchantment got us – me? – out there and robbed us – me? – of a couple of days isn’t really his style. If he wanted to steal me away somewhere he’d be much more likely to knock me over the head and heave me off cave-man style. 

I look at him sideways, but Bigby’s resolutely not looking at me, scuffing his toe on the dirty white tile of the airport arrivals area. He’s been doing that a lot, I’ve noticed. Not looking at me. And breathing through his mouth.

I guess he could be embarrassed about what he told me, and suddenly I don’t want to look at him either.

Not that I’m embarrassed, though. Or shy.

That would be ridiculous. I’m a grown woman, centuries old. And I’ve had men panting after me my whole life. I had Prince Charming desperate to rescue me.

And look how that turned out.

I lift my chin and look at Bigby directly. He’s travel worn, sweaty and dishevelled, as usual. He’s also looking slightly pained and clearly dying to get out of the terminal, out of the no-smoking area to light up and relieve the olfactory overload. And he looks like a lumber jack. (As do I. I can’t wait to get back into my own clothes.) And maybe it’s just the left over stress of fleeing for our lives. Or traces of that strange almost strangling surge of mixed up emotions including but not limited to terror and relief when he suddenly appeared not dead, despite that round of bullets. (Wasn’t Goldie a sadistic bitch too? Planning to draw out his painful death.) But suddenly he isn’t looking too bad.

Why should I be embarrassed? Maybe I like Bigby’s style of appreciation. Sure, it seemed kind of creepy and stalkerish at first (I mean, he basically told me he spies on me twelve hours a day, if not more, even if he doesn’t mean to). But maybe I want to be acknowledged in a sensuous kind of way, for being a real woman with sweat and blood and an odour and a heartbeat. Rather than as some aesthetically frozen ‘Fairest in the Land’ china doll, kept in a glass case. I’ve had quite enough of that from the dwarves.

And maybe I don’t want to be the Fairy tale Princess anymore. It’s like having a sign hanging around my neck saying ‘Look, don’t touch’. Where’s the appeal in that, after all? People get bored of toys they can’t play with. Charming taught me that.

Maybe I want to be smelled and heard and touched. I haven’t been touched in any way in a really long time. No one ever casually touches my shoulder or my arm, or gives me a hug or nudges me playfully. I’m the Princess, or rather the Ice Queen. It’s just not done.

The airport’s bustling, but suddenly I feel lonely.

I grab Bigby’s arm on impulse before he can walk away. I know he knows I’ve been watching him, but until now he’s been ignoring it. His hand goes to my elbow and his arm is steadying me.

What’s the matter?

I’m fine. Someone jostled me, I tell him. He leaves it at that. Doesn’t question how that could have happened when there’s currently no one within five feet of us. Bigby’s good like that. He doesn’t press, just accepts what I say or do without comment, at least most of the time.

I feel a strange rush of warmth for him. 

Bigby’s dependable, he doesn’t make a fuss. And he’s kind, in his own special way, his ‘I’ll-eat-your-family-if-you-ever-tell-anyone-I-did-this’ kind of way. Unapproachable, but readily available at the same time. 

Bigby, at least, isn’t afraid to touch me. Should I be afraid to touch him? The Big Bad Wolf.

I suppose I should be afraid. After all, look at what he did to the Three Little Pigs, Red and her grandmother. He’s not got a great track record with human Fables.

But I’m not afraid of him and I haven’t been for centuries. Even when we first met, aside from the first thrill of ancient, instinctive fear, I could readily see him in the light of a saviour, someone who set me free from the slave gang. He was no worse than the Adversary, in fact he was preferable. He was, at least, a fellow Fable. 

But I have to admit I like the physicality of him. I like the sturdiness I can feel under my hand when I occasionally touch him. I like the security of having his forearm under mine , before he drops it and starts to step back. 

I step with him.

And (though I will never ever admit it) I liked riding on his back, feeling the raw power and strength of him beneath me, or sleeping (in no way cuddled up) with his heat and bulk around me. 

And the truth is, when I’m with him I feel safe. It could be because (like the rest of Fabletown) I know exactly what he’s capable of. No one will mess with me while he’s at my shoulder.

Maybe it’s all down to his super senses. It’s like having an early alarm system in the form of a person (or something close). Yes, that must be it.

But I shouldn’t rely on him too much or get lazy. A woman should never rely on a man when she can rely on herself.

Though I’ve got to admit it was handy having Mr Wilderness himself along throughout this whole bizarre escapade. He saved my life and probably my sanity, getting me out of that damned forest as fast as he did. Though, it still took forever to get to the airport, despite Goldie inadvertently leading us to a main road. (One we would have found sooner or later anyway thanks to Bigby’s famous nose.)

A few hitchhikes later and we were there. Though, I was glad for Bigby’s presence – some of those drivers were creepy. I almost wished I could have just stuck with Bigby travel, but he didn’t offer and there was no way in hell I was going to request it. Besides, he was in pretty bad shape after what Goldie did to him. He probably appreciated the rest, defending my virtue from pervert truckers and all.

Would he be such a bad option after all?

I decide to plunge ahead and broach the subject. 

The look on his face is priceless. I just love wrong-footing him. As he likes to frequently remind everyone we know, it’s not easy to catch him off guard. Congratulations to me, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him look so surprised – perhaps not since I first asked him to come to Fable Town with me.

And he’s smiling too, wry and a little embarrassed, like a teenager. And isn’t that hilarious? I wonder fleetingly if he’s ever been indirectly asked out before. 

I suppress a bubble of laughter in my throat. We’re in an airport, not the Homeland, and certainly not in either of our stories, but suddenly I realise I’m Red and I’m stepping off the path.

And it feels good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: New chapter, at last. Thank you to everyone who's been reading and who left comments and kudos! It's much appreciated, and a great motivator to actually write more! This chapter isn't perfect, I found capturing Snow's voice tricky, but I thought I'd post it anyway. Please let me know what you think.


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